


So Was I

by MistressPandora



Series: Gods of War [4]
Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Angst with a fluffy ending, Big guy has big emotions, But I reference smut, Drowning his sorrows, F/M, Jamie and John are good at hurting each other, M/M, No Smut, Smut Adjacent?, all the feelings, jealous!jamie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-02-22 21:35:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23100748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressPandora/pseuds/MistressPandora
Summary: Jamie and Lord John make a habit of sharing a weekly supper. This week, Jamie finds their private meal has been invaded by a man with a fake French accent and poor manners. Plagued by distant memories, Jamie deals with his his own confusing emotions with a proven Highland tactic: drinking.
Relationships: Jamie Fraser/Claire Fraser, Jamie Fraser/Lord John Grey
Series: Gods of War [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1653670
Comments: 17
Kudos: 67
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	So Was I

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second installment of the Gods of War series, which diverges from the novel timeline in the vicinity of _Echo in the Bone_ and _Written in My Own Heart's Blood_ , in that space between that's so densely-packed and everything overlaps.
> 
> Jamie Fraser and Lord John Grey have decided that the safest place for both of their families through the raging American Revolution is together. You can read the Gods of War stories in any order.
> 
> This also fills my Bad Things Happen Bingo square: Drowning Their Sorrows.
> 
> Very special thanks to [ the amazing LeviSqueaks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeviSqueaks/pseuds/LeviSqueaks) for proofreading things and making me feel better.

Sweat ran down Jamie Fraser’s sides in tickling rivulets, plastering his shirt to his body beneath his coat. After an endless late summer day spent baking every surface and living thing in Philadelphia into a hard crust, the setting sun now bathed the town in an eerie, orange glow. He’d bound his hair back, as usual, but now and then the unruly strands around his face threw the sunlight into his eyes. It 'minded him of Claire’s wild mane of hair, stubbornly uncapped, unbraided, indecent, and entirely breathtaking. When he’d left her at the print shop that afternoon, she’d held it swept up in one hand off her neck, trying to catch a breeze across her moist skin. He smiled at the memory. His Sassenach looked like a primal force with her hair all about her and her face pink with the heat.

He wore his coat unbuttoned, and the plaid of his kilt swung free behind him as he walked. Today was not a day for unnecessary layers of wool about ones torso, and though his red and green tartan drew attention, Jamie was comfortable. Well, as comfortable as one could be in such a stifling climate.

The appetizing aroma of roasting meat and mediocre beer drew Jamie from his thoughts, and he turned toward the open door of an inn’s taproom. Visions of a hearty meat pie with a buttery crust hastened his steps. His mouth watered for the kind of beer that doesn’t quench your thirst but makes you forget you’re thirsty, and good conversation with a friend. He spotted Lord John Grey across the room as he entered and removed his hat. Grey’s back was to the door--an unusual choice for John-- but Jamie kent the slight frame and fine cut of his friend's suit in any crowd. As he closed on the table, Jamie saw that John was not alone. To Lord John’s left sat a well built, impeccably dressed man, a little younger in appearance than John.

Jamie slowed his progress, taking stock of the situation. He saw the man in profile, dark hair curly and clipped short, dark eyes that still seemed somehow warm. He was handsome, that was true, and something about him struck Jamie as familiar but he couldn’t place him. 

Both men were engrossed in their conversation. Though the stranger leaned toward John, Grey’s back remained straight and poised, neither claiming nor sacrificing ground. Something about it gave Jamie the sense that John felt uneasy, but not threatened. Jamie fixed a neutral expression on his face as he approached the table, deliberately setting the heels of his boots down heavily to signal his arrival.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Jamie said, placing his hand on the vacant third chair.

Lord John’s face brightened at sight of Jamie, smiling up at him. “Ah, Jamie. Please,” he said, gesturing at the chair and inviting him to sit. 

Jamie dipped his head to John in greeting as he eased himself into the seat, turning his eyes to the familiar man. He kept his expression neutral but behind the mask he appraised the man, sizing him up. The stranger held himself like a man accustomed to getting what he wanted, shoulders back and head cocked in lazy expectation. His body was angled toward John, giving Jamie the distinct impression that John was a target for… something. A bulge under the man’s coat signaled the likely presence of a pistol. As Jamie settled into his seat, the man hooked a thumb in his waistcoat pocket and rested it there. Probably near the handle of some wee blade. John had a habit of carrying a dagger there and of bringing his hand within easy reach of it whenever he sensed danger. Now though, his friend rested one hand on the table, graceful fingers brushing the mug in front of him. The other was out of sight beneath the table. Not in immediate peril, then, but John’s eyes were restless. 

If ever there was a man who rivaled Jamie himself in his ability to mask his true feelings, it was Lord John Grey. No one else could read John as Jamie could. If Claire was an open book in clear type and plain language, John was an engraved and flourished manuscript, rife with symbolism and misdirection. John’s veiled expression warned Jamie to go canny.

“James Fraser, may I present Percy Beauchamp,” John said. His words were formal but his tone casual, elegant lips forming the French pronunciation of the man’s last name.

The pieces fell into place. The Frenchman who had been looking for Fergus. The  _ fake  _ Frenchman, they’d discovered. He’d seen this man in Lafayette's camp. Jamie kept his mask in place, smiling pleasantly as he continued through the motions of etiquette. “Your servant, sir,” he said. What the devil did this man have to do with John?

Mr. Beauchamp made the correct reply in an affected French accent. It was a good imitation that would fool anyone who’d never lived in France, nor raised a native Parisian. But Jamie  _ had  _ lived in France, and he  _ had  _ raised a native Parisian. He was neither fooled nor impressed, but he kept his cards close to his chest.

“Mr. Beauchamp was just sharing with me a rather amusing story about General Washington,” John said. The fading sunlight didn’t penetrate this far into the taproom, leaving John’s face bathed in the soft glow of the candle on the table. Not a hair on his head was out of place, the light throwing back shades of warm honey. “Apparently, October last, General Howe’s dog wandered onto the battlefield at… Germantown, was it?”

“ _ Oui _ ,” Beauchamp replied and Jamie suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. “A stone's throw from here. The dog followed the American army back to camp. Perhaps it thought to turn its coat, no?" He grinned at his own joke, and John indulgedhim with a small laugh.

Jamie let his expression soften into passive amusement.  _ Eejit _ . He caught the eye of the barmaid and signaled for a beer. She nodded and picked up a mug from the shelf behind her.

"And so,” Mr. Beauchamp continued, “when General Washington discovered that the animal belonged to General Howe, he ordered a man to return it to the British camp under a flag of truce. Of course, the British could not refuse courtesy to the General's dog. Thus, he was permitted to enter the camp." 

The barmaid set a mug of rich smelling ale in front of Jamie and took their order for dinner, disappearing again in a rustle of skirts.

Jamie took a long drink from his beer. It was cellar-cool and full bodied, not particularly aromatic. But it was wet and strong and for a moment it doused the strange tension in his gut. “I had not heard that particular account myself, Monsieur Beauchamp,” Jamie said, addressing the imposter in his own best French accent. Which, he considered with some satisfaction, was at least marginally more authentic than Beauchamp’s. “General Washington is a gentleman, and an honorable one at that. And I am sure the intelligence his agent was able to collect while in General Howe’s camp was quite valuable to him.” 

Beauchamp snapped his fingers and nodded with enthusiasm. “ _ Oui _ , precisely,” he agreed. “A gentleman, of course, but thrifty and resourceful, no?”

The logical conclusion reached, John steered the conversation to other, more distant matters that didn’t risk souring the mood of the little gathering. For this, Jamie was grateful. He and John made a weekly habit of taking a meal together in town, just the two of them. The relative privacy allowed Jamie to set aside some of the turmoil of the war raging about them. It relaxed John as well, and it brought Jamie some comfort to see the tension ease from the set of his shoulders and jaw.

But John was still tense, his posture too rigid, his words and mannerisms too formal. He had retreated to the safety of strict London etiquette. It stoked the fire of anger in Jamie’s breast to see that the reason was this damned liar who clearly had some history with John to which Jamie was not privileged. Beads of sweat glistened on John’s brow, but he made no other indication that he felt the summer heat. Jamie had elected to ignore it as well. Now and then a patron or the barmaid would hasten by and a breeze would brush over his bare knees.

Jamie neared the end of his beer. Noticing that the others had as well, he requested another round from the next barmaid who passed. Beauchamp was talking again-- _ Christ, he was in love with his own voice, surely _ \--though Jamie paid him nay heed beyond what was necessary to offer appropriate responses and polite reactions. He watched John fiddle with his empty beer mug, slender fingers idly tracing the outline of it. Jamie thought of those fingers in his hair, of the damp earth smell of a far-off English moor, and a confusing sense of refuge beneath the stars. 

Jamie pushed the memories aside and finished his beer in one long pull, eyes narrowed at Beauchamp over the rim of his cup.

Their meal arrived soon after the refreshed beers, creating a natural lull in the conversation. Jamie had not eaten since breakfast and he was ravenous. The savory pie steamed with the aroma of butter and roasted pork. He cut into it, the filling oozing onto his plate, and he scooped up a forkful of meat and carrots and crust. It was piping hot and almost burnt his tongue. For a moment, Jamie closed his eyes, shutting out the bustling taproom and the bastard across the table. He savored the taste of garlic, salted pork, and the earthy green taste of root vegetables. 

When he opened his eyes again, a mere blink later, they settled on Grey as he slid his own fork from his mouth. Something in the slide of his lips over the metal brought to Jamie’s mind a moonlit vision of those same lips wrapped around a far more intimate object. John’s pink tongue darted out to collect an errant flake of pie crust and Jamie’s mouth went dry. He drank deeply from his beer, all but draining it in several rapid gulps. 

He hadn’t thought of that night at Helwater in--Christ--maybe twenty years. He and John had never mentioned it and it had never happened again. While Jamie had not forgotten it, there were very long spans of time in which he was unsure it had actually happened. Sometimes he thought it had been a dream, some involuntary fantasy borne of too many cold nights alone. But it must have been real, mustn’t it?

He drained his beer and set the mug to the edge of the table to be refilled. There was a strange, wriggling knot in his belly and his cock began to stiffen beneath his kilt. The barmaid replenished his beer and Jamie drank that down too.

John gave Jamie a concerned look, one fair eyebrow raised in question and Jamie gave a short nod to indicate that he was alright. “We’ve never had much occasion to speak of your time in Jamaica, John.” Jamie said, desperate to maneuver his thoughts to safer ground. “I imagine you have a tale or two to tell.”

Beauchamp turned a bright gaze to Lord John, practically batting his dark lashes like a woman and laying one hand across John’s forearm. The motion was familiar and meaningful and lingered too long for Jamie’s liking. But John was either unbothered by the touch or too polite to end it with force. Jamie extracted the flask from his sporran and poured a healthy dram of whisky into his empty beer mug. He envisioned snapping the bones of Beauchamp’s offending hand in his own grip.

“Jamaica,  _ oui _ ,” Beauchamp said. “Please, John, tell us. Did you have any altercations with a witch doctor?” He pronounced  _ witch doctor _ with too much emphasis on the consonants and lengthened the final syllable too far. Jamie took a sip from his mug, fixing his attention on the warmth that followed. 

“Actually, I did,” John said, humoring them. “Gentlemen, what do you know of zombies?”

John told the story of a revolt against the governor at the time, perpetrated by slaves and maroons. He described a small snake that he had befriended and an attack by a so-called zombie in his room. While Grey spoke, Beauchamp grew bolder in his mannerisms, touching John more frequently and for longer periods. Jamie polished off the whisky in his mug, and the beer continued to flow. 

The damnable part was, any casual observer would hear Beauchamp’s accent and dismiss his behavior as  _ French _ . At the climax of John’s story, Beauchamp’s hand disappeared beneath the table. John pressed his lips into a firm line, pausing only briefly in his story. Jamie was certain that the whoreson had laid his hand on John’s thigh. He poured the remainder of his whisky into his empty mug and took a long pull.

Jamie’s face felt flushed and his vision swam. Christ, he was drunk.  _ Well aye, of course ye are, clotheed,  _ he thought. _ Ye’ve been drowning your sorrows in beer and whisky like some besotted fool for the last two hours _ . 

For a moment, Jamie lost the thread of the conversation. Someone--John, he thought--had told a joke, a rather bawdy one at that. Beauchamp put one hand over his face as he laughed, and dipped his forehead to lay it on John’s shoulder. The knuckles of Jamie’s left hand popped under the sudden strain of squeezing the handle of his mug. It was all he could do to restrain himself from relieving Monsieur Beauchamp of his head right there in the taproom.

John leaned away from the touch, laughing along with the lying buffoon, though Jamie could see it was not genuine. Beauchamp’s behavior was staggering in its impropriety. John was uncomfortable, but there was nothing Jamie could do about it without drawing more attention to their table. The taproom was all but deserted. Full dark had fallen and the curfew was taking effect for the evening. Jamie would not make it out of town before it was in force, not in his present condition.

Jamie brought his mug to his lips and tipped it back with an air of finality, swallowing the dregs. It tasted sour. Everything was bitter and unclean. He pushed back from the table and gathered himself to rise. “Well, gentlemen, I must bid ye good night.” He took a few coins from his pocket and laid them on the table. Beauchamp’s expression was the most infuriating mixture of glee and affected dismay. Jamie met John’s eyes, saw the worry in them under a veil of polite inquiry. “I’ll ask the proprietor if I might borrow his chess set again, should ye fancy a game, John.”

The effect of this last sentence on Beauchamp was fascinating and immediate. He sobered immediately, and froze every muscle save for his eyes. These darted from Jamie to John and back, calculating, fitting the pieces together. The sight of it gave Jamie a thrill of satisfaction.

After a brief pause in which John appraised Jamie, he nodded. “Yes, that would be lovely. I shall find you shortly.”

Jamie permitted a smug smile to tug at his lips. “ _ Au revoir, Monsieur Beauchamp _ ,” he said with a rather embellished bow, his accent flawless. 

* * *

As good fortune had it, Jamie booked the last room for the evening, acquired a weathered chess set, and purchased a bottle of wine. He accepted a second glass on impulse.

There was no fire in the hearth of his room, but a pair of candles flickered on the mantle, providing enough light to make his way inside. He plunked the box containing the chess set on the table, then the bottle and glasses. As soon as his hands were empty, Jamie removed his coat and hung it with his tricorn on a hook near the door. He loosened his stock on his way to open the window. The gentle breeze, though humid, made him shiver as it danced over his wet shirt.

He wandered aimlessly through the small room, but it was sparse and there was nothing to hold his attention for long. Not when John was still downstairs with that fake frog-eating ponce. Perhaps they had been waiting for Jamie to leave so that they could leave together and.... 

Jamie stomped to the table where he'd left the wine, pulled the loose cork, and filled one glass to the brim. He put the bottle back down with more force than was strictly necessary, and the heavy glass made a satisfying clunk against the scarred table. Snatching up his glass, Jamie sloshed a few drops that ran over his fingers, deep burgundy like blood in the candlelight. He wiped the spill on the apron of his kilt and took a sip. He hardly tasted the vintage, but it was drink and that was the key point.

Surely Jamie had not misinterpreted John's discomfort. It was Beauchamp's presence that his friend was uneasy about, not Jamie's. John was never so rigid around Jamie, not anymore. They walked the fine line of close friendship together, respectful and casual. And whatever their past, they no longer closed their souls to each other. 

John's soul was closed to Beauchamp, or so Jamie hoped.

Jamie froze in his stalking path across the narrow room.  _ Why, dear Lord? _ Why, of all the possible emotions, was that one  _ hope _ ? He took another drink, the name for the ugly green beastie clawing at his breast finally coming to mind.

_ Jealousy _ .

Jamie loosed a litany of rolling, vulgar curses in French, slurring them into his wine glass. Why in the name of God was he  _ jealous _ ? He had no claim over John, and John had none over him. Did he?

He felt, as a distant phantom, the sensation of John's kiss, warm and intense. Felt his body beneath Jamie with his muscular angles and rough skin. So different from the soft curves of a woman, the embrace stronger, but no less tender. Fire rose in Jamie's guts and he doused it with more wine. He hadn't considered that long ago night so thoroughly in years, and it roused him in a most bewildering manner.

Jamie paced the length of the room, his footfalls thundering on the boards so loudly he almost missed the knock at his door. He paused. So did his heart.

"Jamie?" John's voice was low, tentative. 

With a sharp intake of breath, his heart started beating again, fast and hard in his ears. Jamie didn't trust his voice not to crack or tremble. He crossed to the door and yanked it open without a word.

John's eyes turned up to Jamie's, concerned. "I think we should talk," he said.

"You dinna owe me anything," Jamie said in an indifferent and cold voice. He turned his back on his friend, taking a few steps to collect himself and permit John to come in.

He did so, shutting the door behind him. "I disagree," John said. "Your friendship is far too precious to me to let something like Percy Beauchamp come between us."

Jamie made a derisive noise that was somewhere between a growl and a snort. "If that even is his name."

John sighed. "It is not." He hadn't moved from the door, kept a wary distance. His shoulders drooped under the weight of Jamie's anger. "His name is Percy Wainwright. We have… a history."

_ Of course they did.  _ Jamie deposited his empty glass on the table and stood tapping the fingers of his right hand against his thigh.

John drew himself up, seemed to be summoning strength before we went on. "A great many years ago, he was my stepbrother. We have spoken of him before, long ago."

Jamie remembered that conversation in Helwater. It had ended in shouting and Jamie narrowly missing John's face with his fist. "Aha. Your  _ friend _ , aye? The one you found being buggered by another man?"

John bristled but kept his words even. "My lover, yes, who I caught in the act of infidelity."

"As you say," Jamie conceded. "And what does he want wi' ye now?"

"Information, at first." John raised his hands to the side in an open shrug. "But now he seems intent on rekindling whatever it was between us."

Jamie nodded, the motion and drink making his head swim. "An' why are ye here wi' me instead of off somewhere wi' him?"

John dropped his arms and shook his head. "Because I don't care for him in that way anymore. And he is married now."

"Oh aye?" Anger flared in Jamie and he clenched his fists. "So was I, John."

"That was different. Claire was gone."

Jamie was furious now. Whatever walls that would have held his tongue swept away by drink. "Aye, and she was married too."

That struck a nerve. The color rose in John's face, his fair brow knitting in a scowl of anger. "And  _ that _ , James Fraser, is  _ entirely  _ different and you bloody know it!"

Jamie stalked to John, looming over him in a mad fury. "It makes nay difference to me. You knew I grieved for Claire everyday at Ardsmuir, and I dinna stop at Helwater. She wasna dead to me. She lived where I couldna touch her, and that was worse."

"But I did not know that," John countered, hands balled into fists at his side. "You did not trust me with that knowledge."

"Nay, and how could I?" Jamie hissed and growled to keep from shouting, but it was a near thing. "How could I tell my  _ jailer  _ that I wed a woman who fell 200 years through time? And how do ye imagine it was for me to come back from burying my brother in Scotland to find my wife wed to a sodomite?"

"Jesus Christ, Jamie, I explained that." A single tear stood in John's eye, reflecting the dim light from the candle, but didn’t fall. "I did it for you! For the sake of your love for her and my love for you, yes, I married your widow and I would do it again!" 

For a long moment neither man moved. The only sound in the room was the whisper of the breeze from the open window and their own angry breathing. Somehow, through the fog of drunkenness and jealousy, Jamie saw it, saw the truth of the matter. John was right. He had done the best he could with what little trust and information Jamie had given him. He'd shown Jamie affection and tenderness when his world was cold and hard and empty. He'd protected Claire, comforted her when she too despaired beyond all hope. 

And he had done all of it for Jamie.

He stepped closer to John, crowding him, but he didn't concede ground. There was no thought at all in Jamie's head, only a tempest of emotions too fast and numerous to name, none of them in agreement except that he must do something. He put his hands on John’s shoulders, gripping them tight and shoved him back against the door. John stumbled, giving up ground with little grace or resistance, eyes widening in anger. His hands came up between them, fisting into the damp fabric of Jamie’s shirt. The heavy door rattled on its hinges as they collided with it. The racket must have sounded quite violent and vulgar from the other side, but Jamie paid it no mind. He pinned John to the door, pressing his hips firmly against him. With one last breath, Jamie dove in, claiming John’s mouth in a kiss that seared them both with the need of it. 

Under him, John drew in a sharp breath through his nose. His body grew more pliant, giving in to Jamie’s hard press. John tasted of savory pie and beer. The bittersweet scent of pipe smoke and summer sweat made Jamie’s head swim. He loosened his grip on John’s shoulders, letting his hands make their way down his arms, squeezing his strong biceps through his coat sleeves. 

It was eons before Jamie pulled back, resting his forehead against John’s. They were both gasping, frozen in place. “I am sorry,” Jamie whispered at last. “I ask your forgiveness for the hurtful things I said out of spite.”

John nodded. “Forgiven,” he murmured in reply. “I apologize as well. I should have been more forthright about Percy.”

“Nay,” Jamie said. “Nay, it is your business. I had no right to pry.” He liked it this close to John. Their faces were both wet with sweat from the late summer evening, close quarters, and high emotion. It made him think of far away moors and caresses and uncovered scars under a half moon and starlit sky. The wildfire of his rage smoldered out, and Jamie would have been content to settle into John’s arms for hours.

At last, John pushed Jamie away with firm hands. Through the growing haze in his vision, Jamie saw that all the softness had returned to John’s eyes. It pleased him to see the comfortable tenderness in his friend. Jamie rejoiced that the hard set of John's jaw had given way to that expression that always seemed moments away from laughter. Jamie’s friend had come back to him.

John pushed him back, guiding him away from the door and further into the room. Jamie allowed John to steer him, stumbling when his bootheel struck the leg of the table, but John’s strong hands kept him upright. 

“You, James Fraser, are utterly smashed,” John said. “You are going to have one devil of a headache in the morning.”

Jamie disagreed, offering some token bravado in Gaelic. It was the sort of thing he would have said to Murtagh or to his men around a campfire.

John laughed, a lovely sound of mirth, and his nimble fingers unbuckled his sporran, laying it on the table. “Thank you for making my point. At least, I think you did. I haven’t any idea what you said.”

Jamie repeated himself. His eyes were closed now and he hadn’t the strength to open them again. John had the situation well in hand. He also had Jamie’s sword belt in hand as he worked open the buckle, dropping the entire thing, dirk and all, on the table with his sporran. Jamie laughed as John dug into the waist-high folds of his kilt to get to the final belt, his fingers colliding with a sensitive spot on his stomach.

“Yes, do let’s make it awkward, shall we?” John’s indignant retort only made Jamie laugh harder. “Perfect. Thank you for that.”

Jamie intended to say, “You’re welcome,” but it came out. “ _ S e do bheatha _ .”

His kilt belt unbuckled, John put one of Jamie’s hands to the loose tartan at his own waist. “That’s still not English. Here, hold this and sit down.”

Jamie could still hear the cheer in John’s voice as he very abruptly collided with the corn husk mattress. “ _ De rien? _ ” Jamie tried. He forced one eye open to peer up at John, who smiled down at him.

John shook his head. “Nor is that, but at least I speak French. Lie down. Easy.” He liked the way John’s hands felt on his shoulders as he eased him back onto the pillows. “There we are.”

The linens were cool under Jamie’s heated body and he melted into the mattress as John pulled the sheet over him. “Do ye’ think we’ll ever stop hurting each other, John?” Jamie muttered.

John drew in a breath and let it out in a long sigh. “If we don’t, I expect that we shall continue finding our way back here.” His lips were warm against Jamie’s forehead. “Good night, Jamie.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you were confused by Jamie's memories of "that night at Helwater" and the "confusing sense of refuge beneath the stars," you didn't miss something in the books. You can read all about it in [The Fray.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22889419)


End file.
